Next to
A piece of
Blank paper
Is what I hold
Now and always
That's how it begins
Really that
No preconceived notions
Or fantastical expectations
Or foolish ideas about writing
Just a pen, in my hand, holding
One finger gently, softly pressing 
Another tightly, precisely squeezing
Across the blank space I'm scribbling
Inspiration is so relentless, it's dripping
Deeply burrowed images and feelings
Starting to confluence into meaning
Into something worthy of sharing
I think of the words I'm writing
I see a bunch of them passing
Try to grab them, I'm failing
Too many of them, flying
Only a few, I'm catching
Games, they are playing
Not knowing an ending
Forgetting a beginning
It's all quite happening
I just keep on penning.